When I was younger, I didn’t see my grandfather as anything but a hero. The way that he portrayed stories about his life spoke magnificent wonders about who he really was and how much he loved his job and the line of work he had chosen to get into. That’s why it’s a shame to announce, then, that he died but a year ago and I never had a chance to show him what I could become and how much I could love my life if I followed his advice and did something I loved.
My grandfather was a psychologist. When he passed, my grandmother came to me with a box of folders in her hands, trembling with sadness, and telling me that he would have wanted me to have them. They were old reports from when he was still in the field and, though the significance of it was sweet, I really had no interest. I wanted to remember my grandfather as he was and take those to my grave (or, rather, give them to my children to enjoy in days to come.) That’s not to say I didn’t get curious, because I did. I read snippets here and there but they all made it back inside the box at the end of the day, nothing learned, nothing new.
On the anniversary of my grandfather’s death, I was cleaning my closet and the box fell from the top shelf, spilling all over my bedroom floor. One clean notebook fell open, splayed upon my floor, to a page I had never read before. The journal was empty aside from that one document about a patient of his that he had seen and a story to be told. He had transcribed the entire meeting onto those pages and I will share it here. I take it as a sign, something he wanted me to see. Something he never understood that followed him to his grave.